Fare Jumpers, Fake Reform, and a Frozen Rink

Why Penn Station is still a dump, and how the guy who fixed an ice rink might save the whole rotten system

By Paul Grant Truesdell, J.D., AIF, CLU, ChFC, RFC – Honest sarcasm from a man who reads the contracts

Friday, May 9th at the Stonewater Club - 6115 SW 89th Court Road, Ocala, FL 34481 - Stone Creek (Ocala, Florida) - Retirement Income: The Good, Bad, and Ugly. Arrive between 6:00 PM and 6:20 PM - The Casual Conversation begins at 6:30 PM.

What do you get when you mix billions in taxpayer waste, a crumbling train station, fare-jumping chaos, and a guy named Trump who actually gets things done? You get Penn Station—the government’s greatest boondoggle on rails. In this episode, I take you through the Shinola-soaked mess, the federal clawbacks, the Attorney General’s hypocrisy, and why Elon Musk should audit the MTA. It is sarcastic, brutal, and absolutely true. If you like your comedy with facts, buckle up.

You ever been to Penn Station? No, not the old one—the architectural cathedral they blew up in the 1960s like it was a bad Vegas act. I’m talking about the rat maze they built underneath Madison Square Garden, where dreams die, tiles peel, and the only thing flowing is urine... and not all of it from humans.

Penn Station today looks like Chernobyl’s forgotten subway. Seriously—if cockroaches had a convention center, this would be it. And if you’re a woman walking alone through Penn at night? God help you. It is not just sketchy, it is maximum-security-prison-yard-after-lights-out sketchy. You could be wearing a nun’s habit and still get followed. Try being mildly attractive and you’re basically reenacting The Walking Dead with hormones.

And what do they do about it? Oh, they announce things. Big glossy renderings! Fancy brochures! A PowerPoint extravaganza with more colors than a kindergarten art project. “We’re revitalizing Penn Station,” they say. “It’ll be beautiful!” Meanwhile, the ceiling’s leaking, the escalators are stuck on "never," and there’s a guy sleeping on the floor using a Pizza Hut box as a pillow. You walk in looking for a train and come out with tetanus.

But wait, it gets better. Or worse. Or both.

The MTA, which stands for “Maybe Tomorrow, Actually,” has been given billions—yes, with a B—to fix this place. Seven billion just for this round. And what have they done? They’ve managed to print some graphics showing escalators they will never install. That’s it. They spent more money on visual aids than on actual concrete. It’s like a magician who’s great with the smoke but forgot the mirrors.

And don’t even get me started on the fare gates. The city spends millions redesigning them every few years, hoping that this time, this time, people will stop jumping over them. They put spikes, lasers, facial scanners—hell, they tried “behavioral nudging.” That’s a real thing. You know what works? The old-school steel turnstiles from the ‘70s. Those tanks. Nobody jumps those unless they’re training for the Olympics. But the MTA does not want old stuff that works. No, they want new stuff that does not. Why? Because new stuff means new contracts, new consultants, new lunches at Le Bernardin. Ka-ching!

Now here’s the kicker—Amtrak owns Penn Station. Yep. Not New York. Not the MTA. Amtrak. As in the Feds. As in “surprise, we’re taking over now.” And who did that? That orange guy they all love to hate—Donald Trump.

You remember Trump, right? The one who actually got the Wollman Ice Rink in Central Park fixed in less time than it takes the city to open a mailbox? Yeah, when New York bureaucrats spent six years trying to fix an ice rink, Trump stepped in, said “Hold my hair spray,” and got it done in four months. Under budget. With working plumbing. You can Google it—if Google hasn’t censored it yet.

So now Trump’s back in the transit game. And oh boy, the same people who could not unclog a subway toilet in under three fiscal years are losing their minds. “You can’t let Trump near the station!” they scream. Why not? You already let him fix the last thing you broke. What are you afraid of, success?

So now that Trump has taken control of the Penn Station rebuild through Amtrak—because he legally could since it is federally owned, not some MTA playground of incompetence—you would think the city would breathe a sigh of relief, right? Wrong. Instead, they act like he just took a sledgehammer to Lady Liberty and asked her to hold a Big Mac.

You know why they are mad? Because Trump did what they could not—take back control of a federal asset they were mismanaging like it was a cash-spewing slot machine. And not only that—he tapped into one of the best things the federal government has done in years: the clawback program.

That’s right. The Department of Transportation and the feds started reviewing who got what money, what they did with it, and guess what? Billions in unspent, misallocated, and fraudulent transit funds have been identified, halted, and—get this—some of it is actually being recovered. Now there’s a concept. Accountability. You know, that thing that vanishes faster than a politician’s promise once the microphones are turned off?

Ah yes, congestion pricing—New York’s latest plan to charge people for the privilege of driving into a place they were already trying to avoid. You want to visit Midtown? That’ll be $23. Want to deliver food? That’s $23. Got a sick kid to take to a hospital? Congratulations, you just got toll-tagged for saving a life in a broken-down ambulance that stalled in a rat-infested pothole. Welcome to the Big Apple, baby. Bite it and bleed.

And now, Governor Kathy “Checkbook” Hochul is throwing a hissy fit because the Department of Transportation might yank $2.2 billion in federal funding. Why? Because Sean Duffy—yes, the guy who dares suggest that taxpayer money ought to come with expectations—had the audacity to say, “Hey, maybe stop fleecing people at toll booths before asking for more.” Oh no! Accountability? In New York? What is this, fascism?

So the MTA runs to a judge. Not to fix the trains. Not to stop the rampant fare jumping. Not to clear out the living room setups in Penn Station’s waiting areas. No, no. They are suing to block the federal government from overseeing their own grant money. That is like a teenager suing their parents for checking the credit card bill after he bought $4,000 worth of Fortnite skins and a fog machine.

Then you have Hochul’s big argument for why we should just fork it over: “The MTA capital plan will create 72,000 jobs.” Sure it will. Just like that Nigerian prince was going to cut me in on an oil deal. Let me guess—those jobs will include “public escalator observation specialist,” “fare evasion trauma response coordinator,” and “Chief Diversity Officer of MetroCard Karma.” These are not jobs. They are padded payrolls. If it actually takes 72,000 people to fix the subway, then we are not modernizing transit—we are hiring extras for the collapse of Western civilization.

And let us not forget the Biden-Harris Administration's crowning achievement—a $3.4 billion expansion of the subway to Harlem, because nothing says progress like digging another tunnel that will open right around the time Social Security runs dry. You know what Harlem needs? Not more federal contractors. Not more studies. Not more ribbon cuttings with hard hats and fake shovels. They need trains that show up, elevators that do not smell like death, and a working speaker system that does not sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher on meth.

But here is the trick: all of this nonsense is sold under the banner of “equity.” Oh, that magical word. Equity! It means “we’re going to waste your money but make you feel guilty if you ask where it went.” Congestion pricing? That is equity. Suing the federal government? Equity. $3 billion for a 12-block extension that will take 11 years? Equity again!

Meanwhile, you in Florida and Texas are watching your fuel taxes get funneled into a city that is literally taxing air. You cannot make this up. The MTA wants to charge you to breathe in their smog while they fight the very agency that gives them the money to stay afloat. It is like watching a drowning man scream at the lifeguard for offering a rope that is not biodegradable.

This is not transit reform. It is fiscal Munchausen syndrome—setting your own house on fire just to apply for arson relief.

Now get ready, because in the next press release, they will say the congestion pricing money is going to “clean energy buses” that run on community feedback and positive vibes. And if they do not get their way, well, you can expect another lawsuit, another tantrum, and another trillion-dollar ask for the right to continue doing absolutely nothing—except blaming everyone else.

Let’s talk about these “72,000 jobs” the MTA claims will spring forth from the heavens if they just get a little more federal cash and permission to shake down drivers like a crooked tollbooth troll. Seventy-two thousand jobs? Really? That sounds less like infrastructure and more like a multi-level marketing scam for union punch cards.

What exactly are these jobs, anyway? Let me guess:

Assistant Deputy Vice Chair of the Elevator Modernization Task Force (no actual elevator experience required)

Subway Track Mood Lighting Designer

Equity Outreach Coordinator for Turnstile Sensitivity Training

Diversity Liaison for Rail Tie Installation Inclusivity

And of course, the coveted position of MTA Nap Pod Maintenance Supervisor. That one comes with full benefits, three pensions, and a taxpayer-funded aromatherapy kit.

They are not hiring welders. They are hiring PowerPoint specialists with master’s degrees in bureaucratic delay. Because in New York, the more you stall, the more you get paid. And everyone’s too busy filing DEI reports to actually build anything. But hey, if you ask where the money went, they accuse you of “attacking progress.” Progress? The only thing progressing is the size of the check and the size of the lie.

Now here is the real kicker: congestion pricing is supposed to fund all of this. Because nothing says equity like charging a UPS driver $23 to deliver a birthday cake to a walk-up apartment that does not have an elevator, because you spent the last budget cycle repainting a mural of a subway car that no longer runs.

And who does congestion pricing actually hurt? Not the Upper West Side wine moms. They have black car apps and personal drivers named Santiago. No, it hits nurses, handymen, teachers, delivery drivers, and contractors—people who actually have to move around the city with tools, materials, or their actual bodies. Meanwhile, the guys who dreamed this up are sipping turmeric lattes in a WeWork space called “The Mobility Lab,” giving TED Talks about “reimagining movement ecosystems.”

Here is the real equity plan: you walk, they ride.

And do not be fooled by the pretty bar graphs or the press conferences with hard hats and smiles. Behind every one of those construction fences is a project that will either never get built or will take four times as long and ten times the money—and when it opens, it will feature at least one escalator that leads directly to a dead-end wall and a Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk with no donuts.

Let me break this down. Congestion pricing is a legalized shakedown sold as social justice. It is a toll booth in drag. And the people pushing it? They are the same ones who said banning plastic straws would save the ocean, then flew 3,000 miles to a climate summit on a private jet with five interns and a camera crew. But no worries—because they offset their emissions by planting a fern behind a dumpster in Queens.

So let’s be honest: this is not about jobs. It is about money. It is always about money. And when they say “create jobs,” what they mean is “secure votes.” When they say “invest in the future,” they mean “kick the can until I retire on a pension the size of a small nation’s GDP.”

And if you dare to ask for an audit? You’re the villain. You must hate clean air, racial equity, the future, the children, the climate, and possibly puppies. You just do not understand. Because only they can fix this. You know, the same way they fixed the last 15 projects that are currently still under construction… and over budget… and under water.

But do not worry. They’ll issue a new press release soon. They are hiring a “Public Perception Optimization Specialist” to explain why the plan is working—even if it is not.

So while the MTA was busy asking for another $68 billion to add more broken elevators and artistic graffiti panels to “beautify poverty,” the federal government under Trump said, “Hey, maybe we stop giving money to people who light it on fire.” Revolutionary.

And speaking of government waste, let me introduce you to a new agency we need—DOGE: The Department of Government Efficiency. Yeah, I know, it sounds like a joke. But think about it. We already have the Department of Energy that does not produce energy, the Department of Education that cannot spell ‘accountability,’ and the Department of Transportation that gives billions to railroads that crash.

So why not DOGE?

And I nominate Elon Musk to run it. Not because I think he is some perfect libertarian superhero—hell no. The guy tweets like he just downed four Red Bulls and a bag of mushrooms. But if there is anyone who can walk into the MTA headquarters, look around, and say, “You people are charging how much for a lightbulb?”—it is him. Send in a few of his SpaceX engineers, let them run a cost audit, and I guarantee they will find $10 billion missing between the coffee fund and the office artwork.

But that will never happen. You know why? Because DOGE would get results, and results are a direct threat to bureaucracy. Bureaucracy feeds off failure. If things work, what excuse do you have to hold the next press conference? If the subway runs on time, you cannot ask for another bond referendum to fix the damn thing. Efficiency is the enemy of government. That is why we do not have it.

And now—now!—you have the New York Attorney General, Letitia “Trump Hunter” James, who spent the last five years trying to turn Trump’s real estate dust into RICO charges. The same woman who publicly vowed to “take him down” before she even read the statutes. You remember that? She threw more subpoenas at Trump than the MTA threw away fare receipts. She wanted his head on a pike over loan applications, building values, and appraisals—and what do we have now?

She’s under federal investigation for—you guessed it—allegedly falsifying her own mortgage applications. You cannot make this stuff up. It is like a traffic cop getting pulled over for reckless driving while holding a press conference about road safety.

So while Trump is actually getting Penn Station rebuilt—finally—she is allegedly scribbling fiction on mortgage forms while still pretending to be the moral compass of Manhattan. Let me ask you something: if hypocrisy were a commodity, could we export New York politicians and wipe out the national debt?

And let us not forget the broader punchline: taxpayers in Florida, Texas, Tennessee, and all across red-state America are footing the bill for this Shinola pit. That is right—your hard-earned dollars are going to pay for a train station you will never ride, in a city you would not walk through without body armor, managed by bureaucrats who could not organize a lunch line without a union contract and six consultants.

But the best part? When you question it, when you ask, “Why are we giving more money to people who cannot handle the money they already have?”—they accuse you of being anti-transit. Oh no, my friend. I love transit. I just want it to move, not grift.

So here we are. A crumbling train station. A bloated transit agency that thinks PowerPoint is infrastructure. A city that cries poor while setting fire to billion-dollar budgets. And a president—who half the country hates more than food poisoning—is the only guy actually getting something fixed.

Let that marinate.

While MSNBC hosts are hyperventilating over the possibility of Trump’s name being slapped on a train terminal like it is the Seventh Seal of the Apocalypse, the actual apocalypse is already happening in the godforsaken bowels of Penn Station. But hey, priorities. We cannot have the station look better, run better, or feel safer… if it means Trump gets the credit. That would be worse than letting commuters die under a falling ceiling tile, apparently.

And let us talk about the takeout. Because that is what this all is—tropical takeout for the bureaucratic class. Endless tubs of government money delivered hot and sloppy into the hands of people who have never completed a project on time, on budget, or on purpose. It is not transportation. It is performance art with taxpayer gravy.

You see the new escalator designs? They cost more than a space shuttle launch. And do not work. The city spent millions on “modernization” plans that include installing curved LED walls—because what commuters really need is a panic-inducing light show while stepping over human waste.

And the emergency gates? Total joke. You can walk through one with a full brass band and a fog machine and nobody blinks. Fare evasion in NYC is not a crime—it is a lifestyle. A way of life. A civic tradition. Like pigeons, trash strikes, and mayors who later get indicted.

Meanwhile, the MTA’s solution is to design new turnstiles… that cost tens of millions… that do the exact same thing the old ones did… just with sleeker metal and fewer welds. You know, modern decay. Because rusted steel is so last season.

And here is the ultimate irony: when Trump does get the new Penn Station up and running—and he will, because if nothing else, the guy lives for opening ceremonies and naming rights—there is a decent chance the media will try to call it fascist architecture. That is how broken things are.

So maybe—just maybe—it is time to bring the guy back, even if he is pushing 80 and starting to look like the Cryptkeeper in a Brioni suit. I mean, Warren Buffett is still running Berkshire Hathaway at 94 while sipping Cherry Coke and reading earnings reports like bedtime stories. Why not let Trump finish the jobs the other clowns cannot start?

And let us be real, people—this is not about Trump worship. It is about results. If a man builds you a working train station, you shake his hand. If another man gives a speech about equity and inclusion while the roof collapses behind him, you hand him a mop.

So what do we do now?

We need more DOGE. We need real audits, real clawbacks, and maybe even some public sentencing hearings for transit execs who authorized $50 million “informational kiosks” that don’t turn on. Maybe install a dunk tank in Times Square—put the former MTA chair in it—and charge a dollar per throw. That would finally fund a working escalator.

But here is the thing that really grinds my gears: nobody’s held accountable. Nobody gets fired. Nobody goes to jail. The only person they ever want to prosecute is the guy who actually builds things. Meanwhile, the frauds and phonies sit behind microphones explaining how hard it is to deliver clean water, working subways, or functioning bathrooms… in the richest city on Earth.

You want a working toilet in Penn Station? Try filing a lawsuit. Or better yet, just run for president, take control of the station, and flush it yourself.

And for those of you out there in Florida, Alabama, Kentucky—you’re paying for this circus. Your federal dollars are buying LED walls and fentanyl-friendly benches in a city you would not let your dog walk through. You fund this freak show while they mock your values, your vote, and your desire for basic accountability.

But hey, maybe you like your money being vaporized in midair while bureaucrats go on coffee breaks. Maybe you enjoy funding a Shinola hole with “hope” posters taped to the scaffolding. Maybe you do not want transit—maybe you want theater.

But if you are tired of it?

If you are tired of the lies, the filth, the fraud, the $20 billion a year to run the most broken, smelly, fare-jumping, crime-ridden transit system in the Western Hemisphere?

Then maybe… just maybe… it is time for the Cryptkeeper in Chief to get another four years—not for the politics, not for the tweets, not even for the chaos—but because, unlike the rest of them, he builds.

Now if you will excuse me, I am late for a train that might not arrive, in a station that might collapse, surrounded by rats that pay less in fare than I do.

Welcome to government in 2025. Grab your tropical takeout and try not to trip on the truth.